


Two Strong Arms Keeping Him Alive

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Episode: s07e23 Survival of the Fittest, M/M, Mind Meld, Mind Reading, Post-Purgatory, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four months and two days after Dean was sucked into purgatory, Sam binds Dean's soul to his. [reposted, first posted on livejournal 25/6/2012]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Strong Arms Keeping Him Alive

It seems unreal. 

After purgatory. After months apart. After Sam spent what felt like an eternity, desperate and alone and ready to break, except he couldn't because Dean needed him. It had worn Sam down, driven him to the brink of insanity, and he looks at Dean now and isn't sure if he's really there. If he really saved him. It might just be a dream – and Sam knows if it is, waking up alone will kill him.

"It's not a dream," Dean murmurs. He shifts, the arm Sam is resting his head on jostling him a little, and Sam can't remember how he got there. How he ended up in bed, lying in Dean's arms. 

Dean digs his fingers into Sam's shoulder.

 _Not a dream_ , Sam hears echoed in his head. _You saved me. I'm here. This is real._

And, _Sammy_.

Sam reaches up, traces his thumb over the sad smile on Dean's lips, and then cups his cheek. There's the rough scrape of stubble and the warmth of Dean's skin, and Sam wants to cry.

It's not a dream.

+

It took Sam four months to find a way to get Dean out of purgatory.

In those four months, Sam tried every possible thing he could think of to save Dean. He read every book, every scrap of paper he could find, hoping for some kind of miracle. Or just something that would confirm it was even possible to save someone from purgatory. Something that would give him hope, that would let him know his search wasn't futile.

He tried bargaining with Crowley, then with lesser demons, then with angels. He spoke to other hunters, to occultists, and at night he prayed to a God that had long ago forsaken them.

After four months, he finally found what he needed. 

The witch smiled at him, lips painted red, and it looked more like a grimace when she explained the ritual.

"It's not easy," she said. "It's not foolproof. Are you willing to risk it, Sam? Are you willing to risk your life to save your brother?"

Sam took the piece of paper outlining everything he needed to do.

"Thanks," he said, and didn't bother answering her question. 

If Sam couldn't save Dean, his only other option was finding a way to follow Dean into purgatory. Risking his life wasn't something Sam would even think twice about, if it meant he could get Dean back. The world had nothing left to offer without Dean in it anyway.

So four months and two days after Dean had been sucked into purgatory, Sam stood in a circle of candles, watched his blood drip into a bowl until he felt dizzy, spoke words in a language he didn't understand, and bound Dean's soul to his.

+

Now, Sam sleeps with his hand wrapped firmly around Dean's wrist, holding it against his stomach. Dean is curled around him, the arm that isn't holding Sam tight is pinned on the pillow by Sam's head. They're lying on top of the covers, fully dressed.

The second bed, the one closer to the door, remains empty. There has been an empty bed in every room Sam has stayed in for the past four months, and most nights Sam lay awake for hours, staring at it. 

Now, Sam sleeps, his dreams a weird jumble of his and Dean's.

When Sam wakes up they haven't moved, and Sam knows Dean is awake. He doesn't need to turn his head, to look at Dean, to know his eyes are open. 

In his head, Dean's thoughts are a mess, too many words to hold on to them, make sense of them, and Sam tries to grasp what he can. Worry about Sam – ever the older brother - and relief, flashes of purgatory and Sam's name, again and again and again. Sam draws in a deep breath and squeezes his hand around Dean's wrist reassuringly.

"Hey," Dean says. "Sam."

Sam turns around and looks at Dean, and in the bright light of day, he can finally make out all the details. There's not a scratch on Dean that hasn't been there before, he's still Dean, just a little more worn-out, lines around his eyes a little deeper and skin a little paler. 

Sam feels a lump form in his throat, because Dean is okay and Dean is alive and Sam missed him so much, had hoped for this day so much, and the thought of never getting to see Dean again had nearly killed him.

"I know," Dean says. "I know, Sam. But you did it."

"Yeah, I did it," Sam says, the first words he's said to Dean since he brought him back. His voice feels raw from chanting the spell - over and over again - the previous night, and his eyes feel gritty from the smoke from all the candles.

Dean smiles and leans in, covers Sam's lips with his for the first time in four months and three days, in way too long, and Sam arches up into it.

In his head, he thinks he can hear Dean laugh softly.

+

"I heard you," Dean says. "Before you got me out. Thought you were in purgatory with me for a second, before I realized you weren't there. It was just your voice. In my head."

"Yeah?" Sam asks, and shuffles a little closer to Dean's body, legs tangled and Sam's fingers intertwined with Dean's. "What was I saying?"

"A bunch of stuff. It was kinda just snippets first – parts from the chant, I think, my name. You said my name a lot. But it got clearer and then it was mostly your thoughts, but it was like you were talking to me," Dean says. "Telling me to come back. You sounded..."

He trails off, and the word _broken_ echoes loud and clear in Sam's head.

"I—I wasn't sure I'd ever get you out," Sam admits.

"I wasn't sure I'd ever get out," Dean replies.

 _But you did_ , Sam thinks.

Dean smiles. _Yes,_ he says, _because of you, Sammy._

"Think we'll ever get used to it?" Sam asks. He traces a finger down Dean's temple.

"I don't know," Dean answers. "But it's not that bad. Having you in my head."

"No. It's not," Sam agrees, and kisses Dean softly. He grins against Dean's lips when he hears words mingling in his head, gone as quickly as they come, like the ghost of a touch.

 _Sam_. And, _more. Missed this. Love you. Your lips, your touch. SamSamSammy._

+

They stay in the motel room for three days and only leave to get food and because Dean wants to take the Impala for a drive.

The furthest they are apart in those days is when one of them goes to the bathroom, and Sam refuses to leave Dean's side outside of their room, a small part of him still afraid Dean will disappear again if Sam isn't there, keeping an eye on him.

On the fourth day, they pack their things without talking about it.

"Where to?" Dean asks as he guns the car.

Sam smiles, and he doesn't have to answer the question. Not with actual words. Dean just drives.

+

Dean has nightmares some nights, and Sam lives through every single one of them with him.

Purgatory is dark. Thick undergrowth, the rustle of things moving that you can't see, and the air feels damp and cold. Sam feels Dean's fear, hears Dean's panicked thoughts when something comes for him. He runs and fights and hides with Dean, and when they both wake up with startled gasps, Sam does his best to make Dean forget, to chase the lingering memories out of both their heads.

They never talk about purgatory. Don't have to, and Sam is pretty sure Dean doesn't want to. But after a couple of weeks, Sam feels like he's been there too, like Dean's memories are his.

"I'm sorry," Dean says once, and it makes something in Sam's chest twist painfully.

"Dean," he murmurs, and shakes his head.

"I wish I could, I don't know, block those memories from you or something."

"I don't think it works that way," Sam says. "I don't think it's something we can learn to control."

"Probably not," Dean agrees, and the corners of his lips lift up into a tiny smile. "You bonded our souls. You freak. I didn't even know that was possible."

Sam just shrugs, and secretly thinks that – Dean's nightmares or not – being bonded really isn't all that bad. Of course, Dean hears him and laughs softly.

"You would," he says, but he doesn't sound all too unhappy either.

+

They take things slow. Everything – hunting, their relationship (and Dean makes a displeased sound every time that term crosses Sam's mind), their lives.

They take on small hunts at first. Simple salt and burns and easy exorcisms.

They spend less time on the road, more time relaxing. Or what counts for relaxing when you're a Winchester. They drink too much and eat too much fast food, watch bad movies, practice shooting – because Dean missed his gun in purgatory - wrestle and look at stupid roadside attractions. 

They don't have sex for the first three weeks Dean is back. It's only kisses and soft touches at first, and they progress slowly from there. When they finally do sleep together – spread out on an old army blanket in the middle of nowhere, just them, the open sky and the Impala parked next to them, because Dean insists that this is better than a small, moldy motel room with weird wallpaper – Sam thinks it's both a shame that they waited so long, and a good thing.

It's like before, but the pleasure is tripled. Dean's touch feels the same, the way he moves inside Sam, knows exactly how to angle his thrusts, how to kiss Sam to drive him crazy. But now it's like Sam can feel Dean's pleasure too, hears not just Dean's moans but a string of disconnected words in his head. About how good it feels to be inside Sam, how tight and hot and wet he is; about how Sam looks, splayed out on his back and taking Dean, how he sounds, writhing and moaning and asking for more. 

Sam comes way too soon, head spinning with pleasure and Dean's words. There's a jumble of _mine_ and _yours_ , need and urgency and an overwhelming sense of love that has Sam gasping into the kisses Dean is pressing against his lips.

"Holy shit," Dean says afterward, lying on his back next to Sam, and laughs softly.

Sam hums in agreement, staring up into the sky, blue and gray and gold mixing in the early minutes of dusk.

They stay like that until it's dark, shoulders pressed together and not a word being spoken. Not out loud.

"Come on," Dean says eventually, sounding reluctant. "You're getting cold."

They get up and Sam drags the blanket up with him, wraps it around himself. The grass feels prickly under his bare feet, tickling, and Dean chuckles.

"Let's sleep in the car," Sam says, because he knows Dean isn't ready to leave, to join the real world again, and neither is he.

+

The waitress has been too busy playing with her phone to pay attention to the few customers in the diner, and Sam rolls his eyes at Dean and gets up to get a refill of his coffee.

 _Pie, Sammy_ , Dean thinks, and then his thoughts stray to how good Sam's ass look in those jeans.

Sam puts a bit of an extra sway into it, looking over his shoulder with a grin, and Dean laughs. He looks relaxed, healthy, no longer tired and worn-out.

Sam catches the waitress's attention and orders more coffee and a piece of pie, knows Dean's eyes are on him the whole time and Dean's thoughts are a familiar comfort.

Hearing Dean, all the time, everywhere, and knowing Dean can hear his thoughts in return, has become normal. It's part of who they are – tangled up in each other, dependent, _bonded_. Monumentally fucked up and perfect just the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Waylon Jennings's "Will the Wolf Survive?".


End file.
